March 06, 2013

Pogo was the first pet I had after leaving home. I had always had animals around when I was growing up. Always. After getting to college, I made it through freshman and sophomore year before deciding I couldn't go another moment without a furry buddy, so in the summer of 1996 I went to the MSPCA and picked out a tiny bit of orange fluff. I will admit it was a bit impulsive, given that I hadn't signed up for summer housing. And was living with my then boyfriend. And hadn't discussed it with him first. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, right? Well, not exactly...his brother was coming to visit the following week, and had a severe cat allergy, so Pogo and I were promptly exiled to the dorm lounge where we couldn't contaminate the boyfriend's room. We lived there for a couple of weeks before I was able to wrangle a room of our own, and in that time Pogo became the dorm mascot, a responsibility he accepted with his typical prickly gravitas.

Many people have remarked to me that my cats are not really cats, but rather dogs - or maybe human, but definitely not cats. Not so of Pogo. Pogo was the embodiment of what "cat people" love and "dog people" hate. Pogo didn't come when called. He didn't like to have his belly rubbed. He took his space when and where he wanted it, and resisted any and all efforts on my part to train him. He did, however, very quickly have ME trained to suit his needs. The first year I had him I had a loft bed, which I got up to by getting on the desk, stepping to the dresser, and finally the bed. I could dismount fairly quickly, but of course not instantly. Well, Pogo figured out that if he pushed a cup of water I had thoughtlessly left on the desk toward the edge of the desk, he could get the funniest reaction from me...first a quick shout, then a fake lunge toward the cup, then a real lunge, at which point he would pointedly look up at me, give the cup a final nudge over the edge, and then bound to the top of the bookshelf, safe from any wayward splashes. It says a lot about my laziness and unshakable confidence in my own command abilities that it took a few weeks of patient instruction on his part for me to completely stop leaving cups of water anywhere.

Flash forward many years, and I was finally ready to destroy my life by going to medical school (kids, I'm telling you, don't do it). I was really worried about my ability to properly take care of everybody as a student, which is when my friends, R&A, stepped in to agree to assume responsibility for Pogo. It was the absolutely ideal solution for Pogo and I. R&A had just lost one of their beloved kitties to cancer, and were thinking about rebalancing their home to a comfortable 3 cat load. Pogo couldn't have landed in a more cat-friendly household, and I could hand him over knowing that not only was he in fabulous hands, but that I would get to see him regularly, if only so he could give me the feline finger for old-time's sake. After some initial kerfuffles, he settled in with R&A beautifully, and even had the unexpected bonus of having a stay-at-home dad in A for the past year.

Pogo was stubborn. He was at times grouchy, but only defensively - he was never the aggressor. He enjoyed eating the finer vintages of plastic bags, and exploring half an outside hallway before sprinting back to safety. He resisted manhandling of any sort, but when he decided to cuddle, he was just as firm. That spot. Yes, that one. The one where your hand/food/computer needs to be. That is where I will lie. He did this funny sneaky thing with the computer in particular where you would push him off several times, think you'd succeeded in getting him to give up, only to realize several minutes later that he had snuck back under your arm and gone to sleep, forcing you into an awkward typing position without you even noticing. Masterful.

Pogo and I have been through some very formative years together. I was 18 when I got him, and I'm 35 now. He has seen boyfriends, jobs, homes and friends come and go. He was the first being I truly had full responsibility for besides myself, and I tried to live up to that trust. He kept me company through so much bullshit. Yesterday, my friends and I held him, together, and petted him as the vet put him to sleep for the last time. He was relaxed, soft and peaceful. Frankly, he was beautiful. He always was a beautiful cat, so I should not have been surprised. I will miss you, Pogo, for a long, long time.

January 30, 2010

I don't love histology, but there are some things I very much like about it. Like the fact that everything is standardized and I can't fuck up the labs. Or like the fact that the slides are virtual, so if I have to study on a Friday night, at least I can do it in relative comfort. Instead of, you know, next to a cadaver. Yes, my standards for weekends have become rather low.

In any case, I also love the visual appeal of the class.

Or

And if I didn't have to know what those were, I'd find them even prettier.

May 31, 2008

This picture does not do the damage I've done to myself any justice. The swelling was spectacular and you can't really see it from this angle. It was the sort of swelling that inspires gasps of horror.

I was going to write a long, involved post about how this mess came to pass, but it turns out the story is pretty straightforward:

Nantucket causes the munchies. We ate every hour on the hour, with snacks to keep our energy up in between. If you eat a bagel, an egg and cheese sammich, a pb&j, fish tacos, cheese nips, kielbasa, and three beers before 6pm, your ass WILL erupt from your jeans when you squat to stretch them out, you WILL be forced to wear 3 inch heels to go out since your only other pair of pants are long cut, and you WILL fall down and publicly mangle yourself as a result. To summarize: in 3 days I got so fat that I broke my pants, and then myself.

May 23, 2008

My momma always said don't marry for money, but go where the rich boys are and fall in love. With that in mind, I'm packed and ready to go spend memorial day weekend at Figawi, half-heartedly fending off the advances of drunken sailors. My motto for the weekend is WWMD: What Would Muffy Do? I've got my party pearls on and will let you know the depths to which Muffy sank when I get back.

May 21, 2008

Groggy, barely processing, I'm standing in a long line at Starbucks behind a woman wearing a gold lamé sweater, stirrup pants, and ankle-high patent leather stilettos. She is waggling. Her butt. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back. And. Fucking. Forth. A few minutes later she starts moving her feet, and it finally sinks in - she's practicing salsa. In line. At Starbucks. At 8:30am.

May 07, 2008

I just handed in my term paper on the developmental sexual dimorphism of the preoptic area of the hypothalmus. Really sounds like a page turner, I know.

What did you do last night? Oh, watched rats hump each other under a red lamp.

Some of the testing is done under "sub-optimal" conditions, which either means a scary new environment, a less than receptive female, or - and this is my favorite - restricting access to the receptive female by tethering the male to limit his movement. One horny male rat + tiny little rat harness = a really aggravated rat.

Oh, one other thing. You might want to read up on the role of COX-II as far as masculinization of the brain during the perinatal period goes. Exposing a perinatal male rat to the potent COX-II inhibitor indomethacina "markedly" impairs adult sexual arousal mechanisms...the poor things just aren't interested when they get older. Latency to mounting? Long. Latency to intromission? Long. Ejaculation? Never. No word on cuddling.

Why is this relevant, you ask? Well two other (mild) COX inhibitors are asprin and acetaminophen. Yep, rats exposed perinatally to asprin show similar, although reduced, impairment of function as adults. Humans have very similar mechanisms, so the next time you or the guy you're with can't get it up, you can blame it on your/his mother and her filthy asprin addiction. And if you're pregnant? How bad is that headache, REALLY?

April 29, 2008

If the self-tanner you have chosen says "for face and decollete," take a moment and consider whether there's a reason for that. Then say, firmly and decisively, "screw it, I don't want to buy two, and the face is more important, right?" Don't bother to ask the sales person, you'll worry about that later.

If the instructions for the self-tanner you have chosen involve using a cotton pad to "gently and evenly sweep" the tanner across your face, neck and decollete, do not stop to consider what "gently and evenly" sweeping a cotton ball over your entire body will entail. Just go ahead and get started, you'll worry about that later.

If you notice spots that look a little streaky, alternate whether you go over them again or just leave them be. Consistency is overrated, you'll worry about that later.

When you get to your hands and feet, just pinch your fingers and toes together and swipe blindly. Who knows whether having a tan between your fingers is more unnatural than stark lines of brown across the tops of your fingers? You'll worry about that later.

Having used several hundred cotton pads to wipe every square inch of your body, spend a surprising amount of time debating the crack of one's ass, and how tan it should, or should not, be. Let's worry about that now.

Wake up in the morning and discover it's officially "later," and therefore time to get down to worrying.

Exfoliate ad nauseum, and consider canceling your swimming plans for later in the week.

April 27, 2008

If you haven't been drinking much at all, it is somewhat imprudent to go on a wine-tasting first date. I have a loud mouth to begin with, but getting hammered in the first 45 minutes of a date seems to knock out whatever ragged bit of propriety I'd managed to scrounge up for the occasion.

"You, sir, need to learn all about hyenas and their bizarre PENISES! No, really, they're fascinating! Sure, I'll take more wine. Anyway, the females have PENISES! Well, to be precise, they have PENIFORM CLITORI, but they're basically PENISES. Seriously! Isn't that, like, TOTALLY AWESOME?! But wait, it gets better, or worse, depending on whether you're a hyena or not - the females GIVE BIRTH through the aforementioned PENIFORM CLITORI. Max tip stretch? 2.5cm. Average cub head diameter? 7.5cm. You do the math. Let's just say a lot of dead puppies are born to first time hyena moms. Thankfully it (by which I mean the GIRL PENIS) rips during that first birth, so the others are fine. Isn't that soooooo weird?"

Loud, obsessed with genitalia, and apparently completely inhibition-free...dating me is a dream. Thank god I was so drunk and in love with myself that I was able to completely ignore any and all social signals to STFU. Otherwise I might have felt AWKWARD.

One person's "rolling hills" are another person's "death march". It's just lovely that we have our own individual experiences isn't it? That is such a special part of the special gift of life. I went for my first outside ride of the season; 20 miles on what was described as "rolling hills." The funny thing about "rolling hills" is that what they really are are "endless hills." Before you have time to say "thank jeebus, a downhill," you look up and, shocker of shocks, oh yes, it's ANOTHER fucking uphill.

I have discovered the source of childhood obesity in America. It's Kimball Farms ice cream. Their kiddie size is...a pint. I'm not kidding. You would have to see their banana split to believe it. We both got kiddies and couldn't finish them. We, brace yourselves, THREW OUT ICE CREAM. It's a sad, sad day.

April 15, 2008

A little while ago I decided to stay with a friend for a few days. Well, actually it was more like he showed up at my door and was all, "Pack a suitcase, woman, you're coming home with me." I was like, I'm not that kind of girl. So he packed for me. Never let a man do that, unless you want to go without underwear for the duration.

Anyway, this friend is not a "cat person," whatever that means, but Preggers was on antibiotics for an abscess from a bite, so she had to come with us to be medicated and monitored etc. We stopped on the way to get some basic supplies. Which apparently includes a scratching post.

Me: You hate cats, why are you getting her a scratching post?Him: I don't want her going to town on my couch.Me: You know, she also likes automated water fountains and those leopard print snuggle beds.

Night 1: We are watching a movie and Preggers hops up on the couch.

Him: Is she allowed on the furniture?Me: It's your house, you set the rules.Him: What's she doing?Me: It's called snuggling.

Night 2: We get home and Preggers runs over to meet us at the door (like she usually does for me).

Him: Does she always do that?Me: Yep.Him: Weird.

Night 3: Friend runs out to pick up dinner, and he's gone for a long time. I'm close to calling to see if everything is alright, but just then he walks in the door with two bags. One's the takeout. The other is a petco bag.

Him: She's pretty fat, and I think it's because your apartment sucks. She doesn't have room to lick her own ass, much less exercise, so you need to start taking her for walks.Me: You totally love her now.Him: She's obese. I'm just concerned.Me: You wanna have, like, 10,000 of her babies.Him: I'm taking the harness back.Me: Chubby chaser.

I haven't tried it out yet because I need to exchange the harness for a larger size. Because, her size? Let's just say she can't shop in the junior department anymore. I think the problem might be the fat roll under her chin. Or the one on her chest. Maybe her corpulent elbows? Whatever the exact proportional problem is, she's headed to the Lane Bryant section of the kitty world.